It's Always Something
by Simahoyo
Summary: Maura is sometimes embarrassed by her family–aren't we all? But does her mother have to work at it quite so hard?
1. Chapter 1

**It's Always Something**

By Simahoyo

**Maura is sometimes embarrassed by her family–aren't we all? But does her mother have to work at it quite so hard?** **(Taking a small break from Halstead Street, but will get right back to it.) **

I was coming back from a crime scene. My mind was on the injuries, cause of death, planning what to do when the body arrived. I had taken off my coat, slipped on my lab coat and was walking into the morgue to speak to Yoshima, when something caught my eye. Framed in the window of Erin's office in Trace was my mother.

I was happy to see her, but she doesn't usually spend time having animated conversations with Erin, Yoshima...anyone but Louise. (Everyone loves Louise.) I thought I should say hello and find out if she needed anything. She's recovered nicely from her accident, but I still worry.

"Hi, Mom."

She jumped a little. That made me suspicious. After her accident she swore off life as the famous artist traveling all over the world, and went back to teaching at Harvard. I had made a small bet with myself that she wouldn't last four months. We hugged and kissed, and Eu d' turpentine hit my nose. Honestly, I do love her, but my mother is an addict of sorts. Artists can no more stop creating than I can stop breathing. They get a picture in their heads and cannot stop to sleep or eat or think about anything else until that picture is complete and sitting in their studio.

"Darling. How are you?" I noticed her eyes didn't quite meet mine. Conclusion–she's up to something which will probably wind up in a gallery somewhere. I wondered how big it was and what Erin had to do with it.

"I'm fine. We have a body coming in. Then Jane and the rest of Homicide will be hovering, asking me to guess. Did you come by for any special reason, or just to say hello?" I tried to sound innocent. Our problem is we both know each other too well. She knew I was suspicious, and she knew I was aware she was working on something. Why do we even try hiding things from each other? After 36 years, we know every one of each other's verbal and non-verbal tells. Fate must be having a belly laugh at having my scientific self raised by an artist.

We walked into my office, and she sat in my chair. She's the only one who can get away with it. Even Dad gets chased out. Mom fiddled with my pens for a minute.

"I got bored. I do have a project, but it's only one little (she illustrated with her fingers) one for the Newport Art Museum."

"When have you ever done a little project? Are you working on it here?"

She fidgeted. "At the Rhode Island House."

"The one with the big studio. How long do you expect it to take?"

"Maura, that's like the police always asking you to hurry your autopsy results. It's takes as long as it takes and I'll know it's done when it tells me it's done." (Score one for Mom.)

"Where's Dad right now?" I had learned to find out these thing when Mom wouldn't be around after the time he told me he had been in Somolia, negotiating the release of his reporters from pirates. He's brave enough to make us worry.

"He's hanging around with Sam Raimi working on movie locations in Bulgaria. They'll be gone for a couple of months."

I sighed with relief. Mr. Raimi is practical enough not to look for trouble. There was a knock at the door, and Yoshima nodded at me that the body had arrived. I decided to work on my job and let Mother do her's.

I put the whole thing in a mental backfile and continued with my cases. I called Mom to see how she was from time to time, and to remind her to eat. Growing up, I always felt as if I was the youngest (I usually was), and faking being more mature than I really was. As I observe my mother, I'm beginning to wonder if she's doing the same thing. She was pushed onto taking on an adult role really young, and maybe she never got a chance to grow up. I don't know. Dad acts like a big kid half the time too. And Jane really brings it out in me. Are any of us grownups? Or are we all faking?

About mid-October, I was sound asleep, and not on call. When the phone rang at 4 AM, I was not expecting it at all. I picked it up, yawning, wondering if it was a big traffic accident. I hate those. Such a waste of lives.

"Dr. Isles."

"Darling. Sorry to wake you."

I sat straight up. My mother is even less of a morning person than Jane is.

"Mom. Are you alright?"

"I'm not hurt or anything like that. I'm at the Newport Police Station. I was arrested."

"WHAT!?"

"Calm down. It was for discharging a firearm in the city limits."

"What were you shooting at? When did you learn to shoot a gun? Do you even own a gun?" I was bordering on hyperventilating.

"Maura. Calm down. I was putting bullet holes into my art piece. In my own studio. I didn't know it would worry the neighbors. I need to pay the bail and my purse is in my bedroom, along with all my I.D. Would you be a dear and bring it to me?"

"_Merde._ I imagine you need to keep making bullet holes..."

"Yes."

"I'll take care of it. What's the address?" And I wrote it all down for the G.P.S. Then I called Yoshima in case I got talked into more involvement. The man is a saint, as Angela would say.

After my shower and getting dressed, I took my purse and the directions and drove to one of those open all night megamarts that sell everything from lettuce to lawn mowers 24 hours a day.

I bought 2 large plastic bottles of water and lots of steel wool and duct tape. I know how to make a silencer, I have taken enough of them apart.

I put in the address for the police station, but drove slowly through the fog and light rain–two auto accidents in the same year made me extremely cautious. It was nearly 6 AM before I got to the Rhode Island house. I tapped the code in at the gate, and drove in. I used my key, and a curious May (our housekeeper) looked at me, then smiled.

"Miss Isles. Your mother must have called you."

"She did. She seems completely unconcerned. How did the police react?"

She shook her head. "They were trying to act mad, but one of them kept covering his laugh."

"Artists!" I ran up and got her purse, and then back down. I thanked May for putting up with us, and drove to the Police Station.

It wasn't far enough for me to steel myself for whatever was next. I put the bags from the megamart into my trunk–just in case, and walked into the Police Station. I never felt out of place in a police station before, but how often does one have to bail out one's mother? I could hear the echo of my heels on the floor.

I approached the glass cage the desk Sargent was occupying. He looked up, questioning.

"I'm here to bail out Constance Isles."

He tapped her name into the computer, although I suspected he remembered her. Mother makes an impression. "Bail is $250. The fine is $25,000."

I winced. "Good thing _she's_ paying the fine." I wrote out the check and gave it to him along with my Identification. I left my badge in my purse. This was embarrassing enough as it was.

He read the check, writing me a receipt. " Dr. Isles? Oh yeah. I've heard of you. Our ME thinks you walk on water."

I kept my mouth shut, and nodded pleasantly to him as he buzzed me in to the station.

I waited, and when Mom walked in, I nearly fainted from the smell of paint, turpentine and gunpowder residue coming from her work clothes. She had paint streaked across her face, her shirt was spayed and splattered with dark green and blood red. She was grinning. I was fuming.

"Mother..."

"You're mad at me."

"Duh. Here's your purse."

She took it, going through, taking out her wallet, official looking cards, and her checkbook.

"How much was the fine again?"

"Twenty-five thousand." offered the policeman who had brought her in. She wrote it out quickly, and handed it to him.

"And here is my Green Card, Driver's licence, gun licence and registration...and I'm sorry about the misunderstanding."

I tried to glare at her, but she used that disarming smile. If I had half the charm she does, I wouldn't be in trouble with the Boston Press all the time.

"Thank you, darling. You are the best daughter in the world for this."

And what do you say to that? I said. "Thanks, Mom. I'll take you home now."

It was a quiet ride home. I was trying to prove I was still angry–and failing. She was pretending this was just a normal day. Finally, I asked. "What in the Hell are you working on?'

Her eyes wide and innocent, she replied, "It's a surprise. And very therapeutic. Mentally healthy, you might say."

"For you, maybe..." Okay, It wasn't nice, but I said it so quietly I thought she didn't hear me.

"Oh don't be so proper. It's against your nature." (Score another one for Mom. She knows me all too well.)

I humphed. I learned grumpy from Jane. I am now in the graduate course.

"I didn't tell you about the gun because it would have worried you. I consulted with safety experts. I did it all properly."

She had me there. "Well, since you were being so careful. I'll show you how to make a silencer. That should keep the neighbors for calling the police again. Just please don't tell anyone from my work about this one."

"I won't breathe a word to any of the police department." Stupid me. I didn't notice she didn't mention my own department.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

**It's Always Something, Chapter 2**

by Simahoyo

The rest of the month was calm, as far as my family went. The hurricane was more drama than any of us wanted to deal with, and I worried about Mom being in Rhode Island, but she got through it better than I did–my big pine tree crashed into Mr. T's garage. Naturally I felt terrible about it. He hired Tommy Rizzoli to remove it and do the repairs. Wouldn't even let me pay because we were both insured.

Dad came back from Bulgaria with a whole new collection of funny stories. There were some murders, but it's what we do. There were no big mysteries except for whatever Mom was doing in her studio. And I swear I saw her sneaking off to lunch with one of the Crime Scene workers.

I tried to pry something out of Dad, but as brave as he is with Somali Pirates, when Mom and I get into an argument, he looks for a nice deep foxhole to hide in. For just one second, I considered enlisting Angela's help. But common sense prevailed. (Darn it.).

Nearly three weeks had passed when one of those art showing envelopes arrived in the mail. I've grown up seeing them, so I tore it open to discover that Mom's project, entitled, "Sweet Revenge" was showing at the Newport Art Museum that next week. I was nearly bursting with curiosity by then. It turned out that she had also invited the Rizzoli's and most of my department. Interesting. I didn't know what to say when Angela asked me about it–since I knew nothing I could tell her (embarrassing, Mother.) And ditto for Jane.

So, I drove down to Newport, to the museum–had trouble finding a parking place. My mother is popular with art lovers. I felt a certain pride in her. Then I walked in, bought a ticket, and there she was, dressed to the nines, and holding court. Oddly, the second she saw me she left her admirers and made a beeline to my side.

"Darling. I hope you like it. Come see the sign." and she nearly dragged me over to it.

_Sweet Revenge._

_Sculpture_

_Constance Isles_

_Last year, the artist was hit by a car_

_which also nearly hit her daughter, _

_Dr. Maura Isles_.

_The artist_ _found_ _a car which was the _

_same make, year and model_.

_Using_ _paint_, _a sledge hammer_ _and_

_a gun, the artist took revenge on the car,_

_since the hit and run driver is no longer_

_living. The lighted tubes are the actual tubes used _

_by crime scene investigators to calculate the _

_angle of bullet holes._ _The work is not finished. _

_There are two others who will be asked to add to_

_this sculpture at the opening._

I stood, staring at the sign. Mom touched my arm, then led me to what she had been working on so long and hard. It sent shivers down my spine. I remembered that night. Every detail, from the sound of the tires, the wet pavement, the scrape on my hand–and the thud as it hit her. The light bars were the perfect illustration of all those bullet holes both of us might have enjoyed putting in it.

I felt her arm go around me. "I brought a sledge hammer for you. I thought you might want to add a few dents."

I looked at her, making an effort not to cry. I went over to the sledge hammer and safety glasses she had set there for me. As I lifted the hammer, I thought about that night. I thought about how badly hurt she had been. About how long it had taken for her to recover. I let the hammer fly against the car. I did it over and over and something rose up in me that I hadn't known was lurking in there. I started to shout something–I have no idea what. I hope it wasn't terrible vulgar.

Finally I wound down, and stood there, shivering. Mom came up and held me.

"See. It is therapeutic." I nodded. My voice wasn't working. I noticed Dad come up and join us. He looked at her work of art, down at his diamond pinkie ring Grandpa gave him, and smiled a little. He walked over to the driver's side window, and etched something in it.. He smiled at Mom and me, and motioned for us to see what he had added.

_Never Hurt My Family Again!_

The end


End file.
